Twittering the Day Away...

This just in: former talk-show host Ricki Lake had a homebirth! The writer of this blog thinks she may have known this already (as the homebirthed child is now five) but had filed the information away in her brain thinking she was unlikely to need it again. What was she to do, start blabbing to people that "Ricki Lake had a homebirth, too. See, I'm not the only weirdo!" ? Admittedly, the writer had made comments to friends and acquaintances regarding her own son's homebirth, but Ricki Lake's name had never graced her granola-crumbed lips, at least not in the context of birthing options.

So the reason for mentioning her now, in seemingly non sequitur-like fashion? Well, according to the writer's source, Ms. Lake has teamed up with director Abby Epstein to make a documentary about birth, called The Business of Being Born. Various births are portrayed, including Lake's second child's waterbirth. The writer believes this documentary could be, and hopefully is, a very good thing.

In other news, writer of this blog wins Major Award. She is smiling, because she doesn't normally make money these days, and money is good. She likey money, and she may decide it wouldn't hurt to make some more sometime soon. Details to follow, if and when appropriate.

P.S. The writer of this blog does not intend to bootleg the fabulous enidd's writing style; she'll be back to First Person in her next post.

I am not a gamer. In fact, just using the term "gamer" is foreign to me. I'm no Luddite--after all, I have a blog--and at times I can even use a modicum of techno-jargon in a conversation. But video games have never had a large presence in my life. Here, I present to you my complete gaming history:

First I will show my age by admitting that my earliest video game-associated memories are of playing "Pong" on my parents' friends' huge console TV--or was that big thing a stand-alone game system? I don't know and don't care--all I knew at the time was that "Pong" was pretty amazing. As an only child, I'd sit alone mesmerized, playing and playing it until my eyes developed a protective anti-glare film, while my parents were off in the regal dining room on the other side of the house laughing it up with the Pong-owners. I'm sure the friends must've told my parents it was "harmless entertainment." And I'm sure none of us imagined there could ever possibly be anything grander--more interactive and visually-stunning--than "Pong."

A couple of years later, enter the hand-held race-car game. My parents, either wanting to save a buck or not exactly being aware of the latest in Mattel technology, presented it to me at Christmas. This was no electronic toy; its most high-tech
characteristic was that it took batteries. Probably double-A. It was a video game impostor, I suppose--I can still hear that "rrrrr, rrrrrrrrr" sound it made as the plastic tape bogged down while trying to do its repeated loop through the casing, with me turning that little black steering wheel on the front like there was no tomorrow and the Grand Prix win would be mine. It was decidedly down-market, but I was taught to appreciate a gift, and besides, a girl takes what she can get.

Next came the TRS-80, that old grand-pappy Radio Shack computer many 80s-kids had, which was supposed to revolutionize my high school paper-writing. The intent behind its purchase was that I would learn how to use the word processor, but today, I have no recall that such a thing even existed. Instead, I used the computer for a much more important purpose: playing a maze game in which I battled various line-drawn monsters until one or the other of us was virtually-"eliminated." This got boring after--well, not soon enough, but it did.

Once the Trash-80 lost its appeal after those wasted hours, there were the "Gap Years," in which I, atypically for teenagers/young adults of my day, did not darken the doors of an arcade nor own any computerized device. I was a bookish child who grew into a bookish teenager who grew into a bookish adult, and I guess my earlier forays into computerland hadn't yielded much in the way of success and enjoyment. Actually, I had a variety of interests, but video gaming just wasn't one of them. I was never afflicted with "Pac-Man Fever," though like every human with a radio, I had the song stuck in my head for months.

But then--and yes, I'm skipping a few years in which computers took on a bigger, but only school- and work-related role--I had kids. The first one came with a brain and heart full of everything dreamy, creative, and relational; the second one came hard-wired for action, immediacy, mathematical prowess, and conquest. After a few years, I was dragged against my will by this child into a world of bizarre characters and a language I still understand only slightly-better than Swahili--a place inhabited by Rare Pokemon and moving Lego-creations. A place now also enthusiastically shared by that creative First Child and her dad, my husband. I have to say that more dollars have been spent in my household on Gameboy games than I could ever have imagined, and I've been sucked into buying them--but never playing them, to my kids' chagrin.

So I'm the odd man out, as it were. But wouldn't my kids be surprised if, the next time I'm waiting around for them at baseball practice/ballet/Girl Scouts/Japanese lessons, I whipped out a lovely little pink Nintendo DS Lite instead of a copy of "Pride and Prejudice"? Could I be drawn out of my anti-game prejudice and perhaps even find something I like playing? Is it possible I could immediately be crowned "Coolest Mom on the Planet"? Or, at least "Coolest Red-haired American Mom Living on a Hill in Western Japan With a Teacher-Husband and Two Children Under the Age of Twelve"?

Nintendo, via Crazy Hip Blog Mamas, is giving away a DS Lite, along with a copy of the game "Brain Age." Something I need? Heck, no. But the chance to win the title of "Coolest Red-haired American Mom Living on a Hill in Western Japan With a Teacher-Husband and Two Children Under the Age of Twelve" comes around only every so often. I wouldn't want to miss my chance.

The very idea of being a "slacker mom" appeals to me greatly, since I am by nature somewhat lazy. After all, I am writing a "30-Second Review"! However, something kept me from reading this book by Muffy Mead-Ferro until two years after its publication. I think I assumed it was a book of non-fiction anecdotes written by a woman who thinks it's funny to plonk her kids down in front of a day-long TV "Godfather" marathon with a huge bag of Funyuns, assortment of Hostess and Little Debbie products, and individual Mountain Dew IVs, while Mom is either (A) passed out in another room with the shades drawn after (another) night of wild overindulgence, or (B) "away" for a bit getting (another) tattoo, and unconcernedly absent since her five-year-old is "really very responsible, for his age."

But I was mistaken; the book is pretty tame, truly funny, and actually more of a "how-to" guide for parenting--well, "anti-how-to" is more appropriate. Confessions of a Slacker Mom pokes fun at all the activities, devices, books, and just plain "stuff" Modern American parents deem necessary for raising Modern American children nowadays. I especially liked the chapter in which Mead-Ferro comments on the disservice done to children by parents who think their kids should have their "own" everything--room, car, computer, cell phone, bathroom, and so on. The author wonders whether such children will be able to function effectively in a world in which "sharing" is often necessary, and the word "no" makes an appearance all too frequently. Attachment parents take note: the author does mention spanking in a not-altogether-bad light, and she defends the non-slacker part of her life--her full-time job--in a way that could come off as a bit strident. And I found it fascinating that much of the book makes an inadvertently-excellent case for homeschooling/unschooling, if you read it the way I do, though Mead-Ferro is certainly no homeschool mom.

By the way, just so you know: I'm not averse to a good ol' Hostess Ding Dong from time to time, and Husband quite enjoys a Japanese version of Funyuns. That means our kids occasionally manage to ingest said items and other "food frauds" as well, and I don't get all freaked out about that. Most of the time.

How the heck does Caitlin Flanagan manage to get pretty much everyone irritated with her, some to the point of threatening to challenge her to a duel? Okay, I made that up, but it seems that bad to me, anyway. I was all set to give her book To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife a pass on judgment, particularly because so many reviewers were being, well--a little harsh. You know, the fact that Flanagan had a nanny and still has a housekeeper and does precious little in the way of cooking and cleaning should not disqualify her from writing about her mixed feelings on housekeeping and everyday life with kids, I figured. Before I'd read more than half of the book, I'd gone so far as to write this in the little notebook I carry everywhere with me:

I am not inclined to write a comprehensive review of To Hell With All That, partly because others have already done so, and partly because I don't feel strongly about this book, or Flanagan, one way or the other.

Now that I've finished the book, it's still true that I'm not going to do a comprehensive review. However, that lack of opinion "one way or the other" pretty much went out the window when I read Flanagan's mention of attachment parenting:

I understood the rationale behind Dr. Sears's weird recommendation that we should all bunk down in the same bed like dingoes in a den, and I knew from La Leche League (a group whose fixation on other women's breasts I came to regard as sexually suspect) that a breastfed baby would be superior in every possible way to a bottle-fed one. (121)

I'm all for tongue-in-cheek observations, but really: bunking down in the same bed "like dingoes in a den"? How about like humans have been doing, safely, for thousands of years? And what's that about LLL's supposed fixation on human breasts that Flanagan found sexually-suspect? Them's fighting words. I suppose Flanagan must accordingly believe that all podiatrists have foot fetishes and all gynecologists are total perverts; I could go on. Does she even see the ridiculousness of her assertion, which she backs up in absolutely no way at all? Gotta say, I was involved with La Leche League at different levels for a number of years, and I never found anyone, Leader or group mom, who seemed even remotely sexually-fascinated by breasts. I can feel my blood pressure going up as I'm writing this, so I'm just going to leave it at that.

I do like that Flanagan can and does poke fun at herself and some of the choices she and others of her elevated social class have made. So I'll move on, to a couple of quotes from the book that I found thoughtful and maybe less-threatening:

The current upper-middle-class practice of outsourcing even the most intimate tasks may free up valuable time for an important deposition, but it by no means raises the caliber of one's home life. (201)

That's rich, from someone who has a maid and a once-a-week home organizer (!), which leads to the next quotation:

For many women, myself included, thrashing through the flotsam of a household in the cheerful company of a professional organizer provides the illusion that we are getting control of the lives we are living.

Pretty interesting thought, that.

And here's something that will really thrill Husband. In one of the better chapters, the one entitled "Housewife Confidential," Flanagan talks about famous "housewife writers" of the past, including Erma Bombeck and Peg Bracken. I remember reading Bombeck as a child (a fairly precocious literature choice that doesn't make much sense to me looking back on it--but hey, those books are funny!). I also remember Peg Bracken's books The I Hate to Cook Book and the The I Hate to Housekeep Book, complete with illustrations by Hilary Knight, of Eloise fame. I think my family owned the cookbook, as did many, many other American households. What Husband will appreciate is that while reading about these books, I felt the pull of nostalgia so strongly that I now think I should start a collection of cool vintage housekeeping books. Time for a new bookshelf. I plan to start with Bracken's books (loads of them on ebay, by the way).

A few days ago I was reading Susan Wagner's most recent Mama Monologues column over at mamazine.com. Susan wrote of her mixed feelings about being photographed at an interview "lounging seductively" in heels with her laptop and wondering whether her glamorized appearance sans children was contributing to the perpetuation of what's being called the "new momism"--a romanticized notion of motherhood in which mothers must appear (and be) near-perfect and celebrity moms in particular are held up as the gold standard.

The "new momism" was brought to light in The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How it Has Undermined Women, by Susan Douglas and Meredith Michaels. While I haven't read The Mommy Myth, I can't help thinking that mothers have always been romanticized, and so have celebrities; that's not exactly "new." But sure, even without having read this book, I understand and can empathize in regard to the expectations placed these days on all mothers, both by ourselves and by our society.

Britney Spears has been feeling the pressure that comes from being a celebrity (someone who is expected to be physically perfect) and a mom (someone who is expected to have attained a certain amount of maturity). Susan Wagner noted a possible example of the "new momism" in a piece by the Washington Post's Robin Givhan, about Britney's recent interview with Matt Lauer, in which she pleaded for understanding and non-judgment while appearing, well--not quite "put-together." It's certainly possible to read Givhan's humorous but biting article and feel that she clearly believes that Britney's clothing choice spoke volumes; I'm just not sure that Givhan or anyone else was judging Britney's parenting based on her outfit that day. It seems to me that her celebrity status was being called into question more than her mothering skills. After all, as Givhan notes (like it or not), "in the world of celebrities, physical perfection--or the appearance of it--is a requirement of the job."

But back to Susan's piece and her fear of contributing to the "new momism": I commented. I told her that I didn't think the world would expect her to pose for a photo shoot in a "saggy tracksuit and pilled, stained terrycloth houseslippers, with a kid hanging off each arm." She responded, in part, that her photo, and others that were taken with her crying child, do not tell the world what kind of mother she is, just as "...Britney's miniskirt and gum don't really say anything about what kind of mother SHE is." Absolutely. Exactly! I didn't catch the now-infamous interview or any of the response to it besides Givhan's article--but again, I can't help thinking that people perhaps were shocked with her unkempt appearance because she IS a celebrity, mom or not. Certainly there are plenty of celebrities who happen to be moms (I'm thinking Courtney Love, here) who occasionally make arses of themselves in public, and we aren't all (A) blaming their demeanor/appearance on the fact that they are mothers, (B) completely excusing their actions and forgetting that they are mothers, or (C) remarking triumphantly that that's what being a "real" mom is all about! So what's mothering got to do with? I feel that in Britney's case, she's been singled out in the past for some of the decisions she's made (parenting and otherwise), and her appearance in the Lauer interview just gave her detractors more to crow about. Her seemingly-contrived attempt to look like "Everywoman" in the interview simply backfired.

I believe that most thinking mamas, and most thinking humans in general, know that celebrities (moms or not) have flaws just like "normal" people, but maybe we also need to comprehend the ridiculousness of believing that most celebrities (moms or not) would appear in a photo shoot looking anything less than spectacular, regardless of what their lives are really like. And you know what? I think Susan Wagner, having not quite achieved the celebrity status of Britney or Courtney, should also be allowed to look glamorous or perky in her photo shoot, without women throughout the country crying foul and shouting that this doesn't portray "real life" with kids. Of course it isn't real life; it's a photo shoot! Again, I 'd hope that all those thinking mamas out there would be fully aware that Ms. Wagner doesn't awaken each morning and immediately don her pointy-toed heels, plop down in a cushy chair with her laptop, and stay there, alone with adult beverage in hand, until midnight.

Maybe what I've been getting at is this: I don't understand why we feel we have to link looking good OR looking bad with being a mother. I know, I know--this dilemma probably lies at the very root of the "new momism." But please tell me: who the heck is looking to celebrities for parenting advice, anyway? I'd knock them silly with my five-inch stilettos, if I owned any.

Pardon me briefly while I pat myself on the back for having children who will watch this movie.

It's an old French flick, in French, and they like it--a lot! I Netflixed it for myself a couple of months ago, and First Child ended up watching it with me, with Second Child popping in toward the end. It's a spare, delightful movie with some interesting social commentary on the ugly encroachment of stark modernism back in the 1950s. And it has some dogs, very cute ones, which play a fairly-prominent role and may be what really sold First Child on the whole thing. She went so far as to request that we buy the dvd--I promise, I did not plant subliminal messages!--so yes, I gave in and bought it for her 11th birthday.

While in the throes of smugness, I will also mention that First Child, a once-reluctant writer, is sitting in the living room, at this very moment, starting to write her own " book" on her AlphaSmart 3000. I just asked her, "What's that thing called that you're writing on?" She told me, then asked, "Why?" as I'm in here clicking away. I think she's on to me.

We aren't unschoolers, but this has pretty much been our approach thus far for writing--partly out of laziness on my part, mixed with a rather strong desire for preserving my sanity. I may impose a little more structure next year, but I think First Child is ready for that now and won't fight me on it (too much).

But back to "Mon Oncle": both kids watched it the other day. I was in another room, but I kept hearing them laughing, and First Child reading (only occasionally with annoyance) some of the subtitles to Second Child, who couldn't quite keep up. Joy. I smiled, wondering what I should spring on them next--some Charlie Chaplin or Harold Lloyd? "The Red Balloon"? I'll be thinking.

I was sitting here earlier reading CityMama's post from May 15 about a certain young celebrity who may have already made some less-than-ideal parenting choices with her infant son. Inappropriate carseat usage was highlighted, which really made me realize that Britney may indeed not be my long-lost twin. I suspect this because:

She: makes a bazillion dollars every week.

I: am part of a family of four supported by a public school teacher.

She: is much more famous and well-known than her husband.

I: am married to a man who is a minor celebrity to giggling Japanese women and American fifth-graders.

She: has legions of groveling, adoring fans around the world who pay big bucks to see her in concert.

I: have tens of friends around the world, who expect us to come see them--on our dime, of course.

She: has had songs in the Billboard Top 10.

I: might have to bribe someone were there such a thing as a "license to karaoke."

She: sang about being "not so innocent."

I: actually was that innocent.

She: took a rather "guarded" approach to having her son checked for head injuries following a vault from his highchair.

I: tend to obsess over a child's hangnail.

She: basically let the baby "drive."

I: currently make my ten-year-old ride in a booster seat.

This last "I" is what got me to thinking: yes, Husband and I are a bit protective regarding Safety issues, but isn't that kind of what parents are supposed to do--guard their young from accidents and predators? Besides, the ten-year-old weighs all of 60 pounds, dripping wet, as they say, and I've heard for years now that kids who are between the ages of 4 and 8 and who weigh between 40 and 80 pounds need to ride in boosters. So, what we require for our daughter is not exactly within the realm of the hysterical and outlandish, though it may be fairly close to being unnecessary. Second Child, who is 7, also rides in a booster--but even this is unusual among most kids we know who are his age. Apparently a lot of people aren't quite as concerned as we are about the possibility of internal injuries caused by improperly-fitting lap belts.

Well, here's to hoping that most American parents at least won't "pull a Britney" with their infants (I know, she was under a lot of pressure from the papparazzi, but come on!). I have faith that most adults with a modicum of education and common sense can be bothered by the inconvenience of strapping a child into a carseat. Even pop stars.

My kids played in a piano recital two weeks ago, at the home of their Japanese piano sensei. Before we left for the recital, here's what I was hoping for:

1. that they both would play well and be pleased with their performances, and

2. that somehow nobody would notice Second Child's filthy, beat-up shoes, that until that day had slipped right through the Mommy Perfectionism Filter.

In regard to #1, I must say that I was very proud: they both played their pieces note-perfect! Second Child had me worried at first with his sucked-on-a-lemon facial expression and deer-in-the-headlights eyes. Guess he was a little nervous.

Now for #2: notice I said that the recital took place in a Japanese home. Um, shoes come off in any and every Japanese house. You'd think I would've thought about this--I mean, we've lived in Japan for almost three years. Well, so Second Child got to peel off his dirty clod-hoppers and leave them in the anonymous pile inside the sensei's entryway. And no one was the wiser.